


Because I Needed You

by Anonymous



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Consensual Underage Sex, Daddy Kink, Depression, Father/Son Incest, Guilt, Incest, M/M, Minor Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Pining, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28905447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: He doesn’t slip out of bed to ask for warmth from the person he needs most of all.Stiles has never been particularly good at asking for help, and he’s not about to start now. Not when he deserves it even less than he did before.In the aftermath of the Nogitsune, Stiles is having a hard time forgiving himself, but he can't tell anyone why. All Stiles can do is hope no one ever looks inside him and finds the ugly things that lurk there.
Relationships: Sheriff Stilinski/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104
Collections: Anonymous





	Because I Needed You

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if anyone reads this pairing anymore, but I had one of those "brain on fire with idea must hammer it out" moments so here we are. This is a rather sad fic, but I had a mighty need for the angst-ridden side of this, the way they might fall together and feel guilty about it. Plus, I just think there's never enough traumatized post-Nogitsune Stiles. There's so much depth to explore there, and I needed to do it. Please let me know if you think the "angst with a happy ending" tag isn't quite right or if there are any essential tags I missed. I hope at least one person out there likes this. <3

Stiles can’t get warm.

At first, he thought it was just the last shuddering gasp of the demon leaving his body, but now he’s not so sure. Now he thinks it might be a permanent shift in his chemical makeup, the same way everything has shifted around him to make way for something new, something less reliable, something less solid. Something cold and barely there, like vapor he can’t close his fist around, an invisible thing closing in to smother him on all sides.

His life is now divided into two parts: before the Nogitsune and after, and Stiles isn’t sure what to make of the after. He’s certain that every cell within him, every tiny, insignificant hair running along his skinny forearms, every mole dotting his pale skin, is different now. The Nogitsune got inside and rearranged his contents. Stiles is a ransacked home. His very existence has been looted and left in disarray, but he doesn’t know how to put his house back together. He’s not even sure it’s possible. Some people keep a list of the valuables in their home in case they get robbed, replacing their lives one materialistic piece at a time. It’s not like Stiles has such a manifest for his personality, his memories, his fears and hopes and desires. You can’t catalogue a person the way you can map the shape of a room. 

Stiles would think there was nothing left inside him but drafty emptiness and rotting floorboards if he didn’t feel that constant, bone-deep chill. On one hand, he hates it, wishes he could stop shaking and listening to the rattle of his bones beneath his useless skin, but on the other hand, it’s the only proof that there’s anything left, that the demon who wore his face didn’t siphon everything away with its ravenous mouth.

Stiles shakes and groans, piling blankets on top of himself, rocking back and forth in bed until he’s too thoroughly swaddled for any insidious frozen air to reach inside, a hermetic seal of cloth.

He doesn’t slip out of bed to ask for warmth from the person he needs most of all. 

Stiles has never been particularly good at asking for help, and he’s not about to start now. Not when he deserves it even less than he did before.

_ You want more than that. _

Stiles pulls the blankets over his head, clamps the fabric around his ears, but it’s not like it matters. 

The voice isn’t in the room. It’s in his head. And where can you go when you want to escape yourself?

  
  


***

  
  


“Daddy,” Stiles moans, bucking back into the body that’s covering his own. There’s a broad chest draped over his back, strong, calloused fingers stroking his stomach.

“Shhh, I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you,” a familiar, husky voice winds its way into Stiles’s ear, the tip of a hot, wet tongue teasing the delicate skin of his earlobe, and Stiles feels like he’s melting into something warm and smooth and beautiful. Something so much lovelier than the fractured, ugly  _ thing _ he’s become. He feels intact for the first time in a long while. Whole and unsullied. Pretty. Free. Safe.

“Mmm, please… please, Daddy. I need you,” Stiles whines, tears spilling down his cheeks as he wraps his fingers around the arm that is looped around his waist. He’s gripping too tightly because he’s scared it’ll dissolve if he doesn’t hold on, that he’ll wake up and find this was all a cruel illusion, another one of the demon’s tricks, one of the many ways it shames and tempts, spinning the yarn of Stiles’s thoughts into the most jagged and deadly of traps. 

The Nogitsune didn’t have to find anything to use against Stiles. It just used Stiles himself. Everything inside his head was napalm waiting to burn. He’s full of sharp, unsightly things, unchecked nails in planks of wood waiting to rip the tender undersides of feet, forgotten bits of broken glass, too small to detect by sight until they’ve wedged their way between your toes.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’re safe with me. I love you,” his father assures him as he wraps a hand around Stiles’s cock, holding him so close as he strokes and strokes, stoking the fire inside of Stiles until it’s almost too much to bear. His dad’s lips and tongue are gentle and sweet on his neck, feathery brushes of affection that make Stiles quiver almost as much as the masterful fingers pumping up and down his dripping dick. 

“It’s so—you feel so—” Stiles can’t begin to articulate it, how much he’s wanted this, how it’s inextricable from everything else in his life. Everything revolves around this: his past, his present, his future, his sense of self, the way he understands love. His father’s cock is nudging against his ass, spreading his cheeks apart and sliding across Stiles’s hole. Stiles thrusts back to meet his dad’s body, then forward to meet his hand. On and on until he’s drunker than he’s ever been, his entire body vibrating with it, so hot, hot, hot that he thinks he can see it radiating off his skin in thick waves. Stiles is basking in a glow he never wants to fade because he knows when it does, he’ll be faced with that impermeable chill again. “Ah—fuck—” Stiles spills all over his father’s hand, his come splattering the sheets beneath them, and Stiles sags into the bed, grateful for his dad’s reassuring weight on top of him, pressing him down into the mattress until he thinks nothing can get to him anymore.

“I love you, Stiles. I always will,” his dad says, and that’s when Stiles knows he’s dreaming. His father wouldn’t love him if Stiles told him this is what he wants. No one would. 

No one should.

  
  


***

  
  


Stiles is sitting at the breakfast table across from his dad, unable to shake the dream that’s still lingering in his head, a fog the morning sun won’t wave away. He’s certain that his dad can read his mind and see the horrors it contains. 

It reminds Stiles of the first time he ever jerked off. That day, everywhere he went, he was sure people could smell it on him. He walked around with the dirty secret clinging to his skin like a fine dusting of dirt until, suddenly, he realized it wasn’t true. It was a powerful thing, learning how easily you can carry things inside yourself without anyone ever finding out. Sometimes Stiles wishes he’d never had that revelation. Maybe if he’d feared being found out a little more, he wouldn’t have let his imagination splice together endless shameful fantasies, the scenes flying by like the most disgraceful film on loop for all eternity. 

No, that isn’t entirely true, Stiles thinks as he watches his dad take a sip of coffee, eyeing Stiles with that slanted concern he knows so well. Stiles has stewed in plenty of shame, but it’s all been to no avail. You can’t chase away thoughts like these just by telling yourself they’re bad. If that were true, this would have been over long ago. 

“You okay, son?”

“Yeah, I’m—” Stiles starts because it’s second nature to deflect and reassure. Despite his propensity for falling into trouble of all kinds, Stiles is always  _ trying _ to not be a burden to his father, feeling like a piece of shit every time he fails spectacularly at it. He doesn’t want to cause anymore strife for his dad, but then he looks at his worried eyes and doesn’t know where lying has ever gotten him either. Might as well tell part of the truth, and hey, if there’s a selfish desire for comfort wedged in there too, maybe that’s just fine. “No, I’m not. Can you stay home today? Can we just… can you stay?”

Stiles wants a proper sick day, the kind that could maybe convince him that he’s just sick in the normal way, the way that only requires one or two couch-bound days of soup and bad daytime TV to banish his ills. 

One thing Stiles has learned about life is that pretending is half the battle. People are walking around everywhere, every day, pretending all sorts of things: faking marital bliss, convincing themselves that their jobs don’t make them want to splatter their brains all over their cubicle walls, ignoring the gaping holes of existential dread expanding inside them with each passing second. If it works for them, maybe it can work for Stiles. Usually, he’s too stubborn to be susceptible to the power of suggestion, but he’s running out of options. 

His father looks like he’s about to protest, probably with a perfectly viable excuse about why he’s needed at the station—it isn’t the type of job that lends itself to unplanned sick days—but then his face changes, the creases in his forehead deepening as he reaches out to squeeze Stiles’s shoulder.

“Sure. I can do that.”

  
  


***

  
  


Stiles is lying on his side, shivering on the couch, unable to focus on the banter of  _ Golden Girls  _ reruns, his knees knocking together, the sound like a thousand drums beating against his skull. He can’t tell if it’s really that loud or if his senses are heightened. He might not be a werewolf, but anxiety has a way of turning everything up to level eleven. 

“Stiles?” His dad places a warm palm on Stiles’s knee, and Stiles can feel the heat even through the blanket. Stiles wants more. “Maybe we should take you to the hospital. Or to Deaton? Do you think it’s something he might—”

“No!” Stiles says, the sudden volume of it taking them both by surprise. His father’s hand jerks back, and Stiles instantly misses the touch. “I don’t—I don’t want any of that, okay?” Stiles has had enough of being probed, diagnosed and analyzed, his suffering on display for all to see, like a case study paraded in front of a full classroom. No more clinical, icy metals on his skin, no pitying brows turned in his direction, making him shrink, making him feel small and angry and frustrated. No more tests. “I just want to be home with you. Can we get in bed?”

“Stiles, I really think we should—”

“If I’m not better tomorrow, you can take me to the hospital, okay? Just give me one day.”

The Sheriff bites his lip, but he nods all the same and scoops Stiles up, carrying him to his bedroom. It’s unexpected in the most wonderful way. Stiles links his arms around his dad’s neck and rests his cheek against his chest, feeling thirty percent better already. 

But when his dad puts him down, the coldness is back, rushing into the room like someone left a window open during a blizzard.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” his dad asks as he tucks him in, and Stiles nods vehemently.

“Get in,” Stiles whispers. It’s a seemingly innocent request, but his cheeks are aflame as he lifts the covers in invitation.

_ You sick fuck. _

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, shunning the voice, refusing to give it any power.

His dad gets under the covers, and Stiles curls into his side, his arm laying across his dad’s stomach, face pressed to his chest, the steady, comforting rhythm of his father’s heart funneling into his ear. He folds his arms around Stiles, drawing him even closer, and everything is still and soft in a way it hasn’t been for weeks. Stiles didn’t know it was even possible to feel calm anymore, to quiet the chaos inside him. He’s so used to the ground being unsteady beneath his feet, a perpetual rumbling and jostling of fault lines under siege, his shoes sinking into the soil. 

The Sheriff laughs softly, and Stiles soaks up the rumble of it, absorbs the soothing balm into his skin.

“What?”

“I was just thinking… I haven’t held you like this since you were a little boy. It’s nice,” his dad says, kissing the top of Stiles’s head, his fingers running through his hair, and Stiles is flooded with warmth, a golden sun-lit morning kind of warmth, the kind of picturesque day everyone thinks California is made of. Apparently Beacon Hills lost the memo. Too much grey in the landscape, spreading like a spidery-veined plague.

“You make me feel safe,” Stiles breathes, clutching onto him harder, forgetting to worry that his body might respond and betray his most hidden desires.

“I wish I could protect you from… god,  _ everything. _ I’m sorry I didn’t see it earlier, Stiles.”

“How could you? We didn’t even know Nogitsunes existed.”

“But I know  _ you. _ I should have known,” his father insists, his embrace tightening a little.

“It manipulated you. It manipulated everyone.” It’s true. Something that ancient and powerful doesn’t persist through time without the masterful skill of warping perception. But the truth of that doesn’t make Stiles feel any better. It only makes him think about  _ what _ the Nogitsune used to manipulate him, the nuggets of depraved darkness it plucked from his mind and dangled in front of his face, a highlight reel of his most unseemly secrets. No one knows about that. 

_ He’ll leave you if he ever finds out. _

Stiles tells the voice to fuck off, his fingers winding in the material of his dad’s shirt, every point of contact between them hot and soothing and exactly what Stiles needs.

  
  


***

  
  


When Stiles wakes up, it’s dark outside. 

It’s funny; he used to never sleep, and now it’s all he does. Maybe his body is catching up on the deficit, atoning for all the waking nightmares and exhaustion—nothing quite like being possessed by an evil spirit to make you feel like you’ve run a marathon—but Stiles nods off all the time now. Part of him is grateful for all the rest, to not be shaken awake by torturous visions, but, like the everlasting coldness, he’s worried it will be this way forever. 

He’s surprised to find his dad still underneath him, but perhaps he needs the rest too. Like Stiles, he’s never been very good at slowing down and taking the time to recoup. It’s one of the reasons Stiles never stops worrying about him. 

Stiles shifts a little and moans as his clothed dick rubs against his father’s thigh. As Stiles’s bleary eyes blink away the curtain of sleep, he becomes painfully aware of how hard he is, his dad’s solid body under his hands. He’s always loved the way his father is hard yet soft, strong with a huggable tenderness underneath it all, a perfect combination that Stiles wants to explore every inch of, mapping his dad’s body with eager fingers. He’s had fantasies exactly like this: rutting against his father’s thigh until he comes, gripping his father’s t-shirt and panting in his neck as he tells Stiles what a good boy he is, how good he feels, how much he loves him.

It’s an opportunity that’s almost too delicious not to take, but Stiles knows he can’t. The immeasurable self-disgust he’d feel afterward wouldn’t be worth it. 

Stiles tries to pull back, to unthread his father’s arms and slide away, but the movement wakes him up.

“Stiles?” his dad slurs, and the sleepy murmur of his voice stirs the guilt deep within the pit of Stiles’s stomach.

“Um, Dad, I—” Stiles starts to explain, but he stops halfway through. Maybe his dad won’t even notice. Maybe Stiles can roll away before it’s too obvious. Or maybe his dad would prefer to feign ignorance altogether, minimize the damage and spare Stiles the embarrassment.

“Oh,” he responds with a chuckle. “It happens. You just woke up.”

Stiles lets out a long, shaky exhale, happy to capitalize on the false assumption of morning wood.

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters, rolling onto his back.

“It’s okay, kiddo. Nothing to be embarrassed about,” his dad says, patting Stiles’s knee as he rolls out of bed. “We passed out for a long time, huh? How about I order us some dinner?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll eat whatever,” Stiles replies, imbuing the words with a false brightness, forcing a smile onto his tired face.

Pretend, pretend, pretend. Eventually, it becomes second nature, doesn’t it?

  
  


***

  
  


“I haven’t seen you in almost two weeks, dude,” Scott laments, those puppy dog eyes of his shining with concern and loyalty. It should make Stiles feel better, looking into that familiar face to see love and friendship reflected back instead of the dubious trust he deserves, but that’s just it: we accept the love we think we deserve, and Stiles doesn’t think he deserves much of anything anymore. Not after what he did. 

Stiles looks into Scott’s eyes, and all he can see is the way the pupils widened when he gasped for breath as the blade sank into his flesh. He remembers how the color of Scott’s irises changed a bit, the ciliary muscles shifting as the ring of light grew smaller. He remembers the power he felt as he twisted the sword, the futile pulsing of Scott’s tissue trying to fuse together, impeded by the barrier of the blade. He remembers the vivid mixture of shock, pain, betrayal, confusion, and horror that flashed across Scott’s face, scrolling by as fast as a rollercoaster whizzing downhill. He remembers the intimate way he held the side of Scott’s face, an insult to injury, a nod to brotherhood before the very notion was severed completely.

He remembers everything. Forgetting isn’t possible.

“Sorry… haven’t really been in the mood to see anyone.” Stiles dangles his feet over the edge of the ravine and briefly entertains the idea of faking a loss of balance, letting himself slide to his death. It would be easy, and Scott wouldn’t suspect a thing. It would just look like a tragic accident. 

“I know, I just… want to make sure you know I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

“Why don’t you just give the fuck up, Scott? There are things you can’t come back from, and this is one of them. Normal people don’t just move on and make up after—”

“Normal?! Since when have we ever been normal, even before I got bitten? Remember what you said after everything with Jackson and Matt? I told you I was right back where I started, no girlfriend, no lacrosse, and you said ‘you still have me.’ We’ve always had each other, Stiles. No matter what’s going on, that’s always been true. It’s not gonna stop now.” Scott squeezes his shoulder, and his smile is warm and genuine. It reaches into the frozen chambers of Stiles’s heart, fluttering a little hope into it.

“Thanks, but I… I don’t know, Scott. I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.” So often, that’s just a bullshit phrase, a trite piece of shit line passed from one person to another in breakups all across the country, but Stiles means it. He’s the only thing that’s wrong here, and he doesn’t know how to fix that.

***

  
  


The next time Stiles dreams of his father, they’re in Stiles’s bed. Dream Stiles is on his back, pale and naked, the curtains open to let the moonlight in. His legs are spread wide, knees pulled up halfway to his chest, and his father is lying on his stomach between them, licking at Stiles’s hole, his tongue traveling up the length of Stiles’s cock to suckle on the tip, swallowing him down for a few beats before pulling off and dipping back down, swiping over Stiles’s hole again. He keeps alternating between the two, driving Stiles closer to the edge as he bucks back into his father’s face, desperately seeking more of that wicked, hot tongue.

“You’re so eager, sweetheart. What do you want?” his father asks, murmuring into the soft skin of Stiles’s inner thigh, leaving a trail of kisses there.

“I want—I—”

“You have to tell me, Stiles. You have to ask for it,” he says with a firm tenderness, like these are previously agreed upon rules. Like Stiles should know better. Like they’ve done this before.

“Mmm… want your cock, Daddy. Please fuck me,” Stiles begs, running his fingers through his father’s hair, squirming on the bed in anticipation.

“Anything for my baby.” He moves up the bed and slides inside Stiles so easily, like he belongs there, like Stiles’s body has just been waiting to accept him. He leans forward until they’re pressed chest to chest, and Stiles wraps his legs around his waist, his hands curling around his father’s shoulders as he fucks into him. It’s a slow, sinuous rhythm, a sensual dance that leaves Stiles’s dick positively aching to come, his father’s cock sliding in and out with every roll of his hips.

“Ah—fuck—you feel so good, Daddy,” Stiles whispers into his neck, lapping at the skin, licking away the salty sweat that’s gathering there. “Make me come.”

_ “Stiles?”  _ The sound isn’t coming from his dad, or at least not the one who’s fucking him. It’s a rumble that echoes from a distance, but it’s getting louder.  _ “Stiles, wake up.” _

Stiles’s eyes fly open, and he blinks rapidly as the room comes into focus. There’s moonlight streaming in, just like it was in the dream, but he’s not in his own bedroom. 

It all starts to come back to him. 

That’s right, he crawled into bed with his dad. Asked if he could stay because he couldn’t sleep, wanted to be close to him and smell his aftershave, feel the scratch of his dad’s stubble on his cheek. He’d lifted the covers for Stiles without hesitation, but now… now he’s hovering over Stiles with a frown, his hand cradling Stiles’s face the same way Stiles cradled Scott’s.

“You were moving around a lot, talking in your sleep. I thought you were having a nightmare.” His dad looks so concerned, and Stiles flashes back to the nights when the Nogitsune first began to torture him, when his father burst into his room to restrain a shrieking Stiles, anchoring arms around his middle as he held Stiles’s back to his chest. “You called out for me.” 

Stiles’s heart sinks. The Sheriff thought he was calling for help when he was really calling for his father to fuck him.

“I… I’m okay, Dad.” Stiles pats the hand that’s resting on his cheek, and his father flashes a small smile, a little of his worry receding. He hauls Stiles closer, hugging him, one hand braced on the back of Stiles’s head. Stiles throws his arms around his father’s shoulders and nuzzles in his neck. He smells so good. Musky aftershave, cedar, and a hint of gunsmoke. Solid and familiar. Home. Stiles inhales deeply and keeps rubbing his nose against his father’s neck.

He can’t help it.

He’s so intoxicated by it, lulled into peace by that scent and the grounding embrace, the serene quiet of the night and the safe cover of darkness.

Stiles presses a kiss to his dad’s neck, a gentle brush of lips, the barest touch, the kind a person could convince themselves they imagined. 

But Stiles doesn’t stop there. He doesn’t stop with a brief gesture he might be able to get away with. He doesn’t quit while he’s ahead. Stiles is so cold and lonely and full of shame and secrets, and his daddy is the only one who chases it away, the only place he feels safe, the only home he’s ever known. 

Stiles drags hungry lips along his dad’s neck and jawline, placing another kiss to the corner of his mouth, not quite bold enough to look his father in the eyes and fully join their lips. For a glorious second, Stiles thinks maybe it’s going to be okay, but then his father’s arms stiffen. Stiles swears he can actually hear him hold his breath, all the air sucking in sharply to leave deafening quiet behind.

His father pulls back, and he won’t even look at Stiles. 

“Stiles… you can’t… what’s wrong with you?!” He whispers it, but it’s somehow worse than if he’d yelled. It’s a hissing admonishment that makes Stiles feel repulsive.

“I-I’m sorry. I just wanted… you—you think I’m wrong, I knew you would, I knew you’d hate me, I’m sorry I’m so fucked up, I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry.” Stiles curls into himself, sitting up with his knees drawn to his chest, burying his face in his thighs as he starts to cry, his whole body shaking. 

“No, no, sweetheart, you’re not… you’re just confused, I think,” his father says softly. There’s a patronizing note to it that infuriates Stiles because no, he’s not confused. He knows exactly what he wants, what he  _ needs _ to stop feeling like the entire planet is going to spin off its axis and hurtle through space. 

“You’re gonna leave me, and then I’ll have no one.”

“No, Stiles, that’s  _ never _ going to happen.” There’s a hand on his shoulder now, but Stiles doesn’t dare look up. “We’ll…” Stiles hears a heavy sigh, and he doesn’t have to see his father’s face to know the world-weary expression he’s wearing. “It’s okay, Stiles. You’re gonna be okay, son. Come here.”

His father tries to uncoil Stiles’s body, but Stiles presses his face further into his thighs, his arms around his knees, afraid to break formation and face the reality before him. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

“Stiles, come here. Please.” 

Stiles finally lifts his head. His leaden body feels lighter when he sees only love in his father’s eyes. Stiles lets himself be held and tries to forget that he wants more.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” he whispers into Stiles’s hair, and no matter how fucked up things are, Stiles believes him. 

  
  


***

  
  


Nothing happens for a few days, and Stiles starts to believe in the power of suggestion again. Even if “regression therapy” is basically the stuff of 80s Satanic panic myth, people  _ do _ shove things so far down wells of the mind that they can’t surface again without a deep excavation. There are depression-inflicted blackouts, events redacted without permission. 

There are ways to forget, aren’t there? 

And even if we can’t forget, we can grow out of things. So far, that hasn’t proven to be true for this particular problem—how long has it been? Three years? Four? Stiles can’t really pin down when it first started, only that it sped up after a while, like an object in freefall after it hits the atmosphere, gaining force and velocity at an alarming rate—but maybe it will be someday.

Then, out of the blue, everything is back: the cold, his inner voice screaming all the ways he’s worthless, and the ache to fall into the arms of the person he loves the most. Stiles thinks the fickle nature of depression is maybe the cruelest thing about it. Just when he thinks he’s out of the woods, his entire outlook is knocked sidewise, the sudden impact of a car crash around a blindspot bend. 

It’s a Saturday, and he hasn’t gotten out of bed all day. The alarm clock is mocking him, displaying 3:00 PM in garishly bright red numbers. There’s a knock on the frame to his open door, and Stiles lazily turns his head to see his father standing there, frowning down at Stiles.

“Stiles, you’ve been in here all day, and I’m about ninety percent sure you haven’t moved from the bed.”

“Nice observational skills. Police department know about you?”

“Well, if you’re feeling okay enough to be a smart ass, I’ll take that as a good sign.” His dad smiles, but his eyes are still uneasy. He strolls over to the bed and sits at the edge, his hand hovering for a second like he wants to touch Stiles. The hand falls, landing on the bed instead. “Will you at least come down and eat something?”

“Hold me for a bit first?” Stiles decides to try for bold. It forces his dad’s hand; he has to either acknowledge it or pretend like that kiss didn’t happen, like this is just a normal request for comfort. 

His dad tilts his head, searching Stiles’s face for a moment before finally nodding, lifting the covers and sliding in next to Stiles. Stiles settles on his side, the little spoon to his dad’s big spoon, and it ignites a fire in his entire body. He feels so small and safe, and they fit together seamlessly, his dad’s chest flush against his back, his legs nesting behind Stiles’s. 

“You’re the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m broken,” Stiles chokes out, swallowing hard to ward against the sobs threatening to climb out of his throat. It isn’t that Scott and Lydia aren’t offering forgiveness, free and clear of conditional clauses. It’s that Stiles doesn’t  _ believe _ in it. Not when he’s with them. Only when he’s with his father. 

“You’re not broken, sweetheart. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.” His chin comes to rest on Stiles’s shoulder, his arm tight around Stiles’s waist. 

“You didn’t think I was broken when I tried to kiss you?” Stiles’s heart beats wildly in his chest, terrified that he’s going to push his father away for good.

“I think you—you’re alone and scared right now, and you reached for someone you can count on. I think your wires got crossed somewhere along the way, but I don’t think—”

“My wires didn’t get crossed. I wasn’t reaching for you because I feel like shit right now. I… I’ve thought about you like that for a long time.” There’s a hush over the room so complete that Stiles can hear the blood rushing in his ears, but he squeezes his eyes shut against the humiliation and says what he has to say. “It knew. It was in my head so it could see…  _ everything. _ And it used that against me. I can’t even blame it for that because it’s exactly what anyone who found out would do. It’s what you’re gonna do right now. I—I know I’m not supposed to love you like this, but I do. I have for a long time. And yeah, it’s worse now because I… I need you more than I ever have. But it’s not the reason I  _ started _ needing you like that.”

He can still hear the sibilant threats of the Nogitsune. Its cadence is stamped into his memory forever.

_ Stiles, Stiles, Stiles… the boy who has everyone fooled. You’re not at all what they think you are so why keep lying to them? Why keep infecting their life with your poison? You’ll only ruin them in the end. You’re not a defender of justice. You’re a wily snake who would happily beat the blood from his enemies with righteous fists. And afterward, you’d lick their blood from your bruised knuckles and smile. Would Daddy like that? Would he be proud enough to spread you out and fuck you sore like you keep praying he will? No, I don’t think so. He’d never look at you again if he knew. He’d never love you. _

Even through his fear, Stiles wants to prove the demon wrong.

“Stiles, I don’t… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you still love me?” Stiles whimpers, his lower lip trembling as he continues to fight the tears.

“Hey,” his father clasps his chin and turns it until Stiles is looking into his eyes, “I will always, always love you. Doesn’t matter what you do, understand me? Always.”

Stiles nods, the tears rolling down his cheeks, his chest quaking as he gives up and lets the sobs come.

“I’m sorry you’ve been through so much; you don’t deserve it, you hear me? I know you feel guilty, but you have to stop torturing yourself. It wasn’t your fault. Nothing that happened when that thing was inside you was your fault and neither is this. I wish I could take away every last bit of your pain.”

“Then try?” Stiles whispers, turning around in his dad’s arms, lying on his other side so they’re facing one another. With a shaky hand, he reaches up and strokes his father’s cheek. 

“Stiles,” he says, the word barely more than a breath, his eyes closed as he covers Stiles’s hand with his own. “Not like that.”

“You think I just need someone, but I need  _ you. _ I need to be close to you. It  _ hurts, _ it’s this deep fucking constant ache, you have no idea.”

His dad’s eyes fly open, and they’re brimming with tears. He looks devastated, like he wants so badly to sew the sutures that will keep Stiles’s wounds from wrenching open, but he doesn’t know how to steady his hands for the job.

“Just try, Daddy? Just once?” Stiles’s dick twitches in his pajama pants, a flush creeping up his neck, flames licking across his skin. This is how it always is. The mere thought of him is all-consuming, a total immersion that fills Stiles with a thrill that can’t be matched. He’s cheated death and fought against mythical adversaries, but nothing compares to the adrenaline that floods his veins at the thought of touching his daddy. Being touched by him. He’s not sure what will happen when they finally collide, but he expects it will defy physics and chemistry. A reaction so powerful, it will probably hurt in the most glorious way. 

“Are you sure? I need to know you’re sure.” His father’s voice is low and measured, a tone Stiles knows well. Grave, careful, thoughtful.

“You want me to have a lawyer draft up a contract? Get it legally signed and everything?”

They both laugh, and a bit of the tension eases out of the room. Stiles forgets for a second that this is something completely forbidden, and he hopes his father forgets it too. Stiles leans closer, but he doesn’t completely close the distance. That’s for his dad to do. Stiles won’t take what he isn’t given freely. 

Stiles bites his bottom lip, his gaze darting from his dad’s lips to his lovely eyes, and when his dad closes those eyes and leans in, Stiles’s mouth drops open. He doesn’t do it because of what he wants; his mouth is open because this is the shock of a lifetime. He didn’t really expect this to happen, but suddenly, his dad’s mouth is on his and it’s warm and wet and everything he ever hoped it would be. The sparks flying behind Stiles’s eyes are vibrant and never-ending. The throb between his legs is so intense he thinks he might embarrass himself and come right away, leaving a sticky mess on the inside of his pajamas. Stiles pictures his father rubbing his nose against the cloth, smelling the mess underneath, licking at the fabric until the wetness seeps through, until Stiles is hard again. He whines at the thought, wanting so goddamn much he can barely begin to articulate it. It’s not a simple feeling, this pervasive desire for his father. It’s something dark and complicated and too deeply rooted to dig up, spreading through the soil with a tenacity not unlike the Nemeton itself.

Stiles expects a hasty retreat, a moment of stricken horror as his father realizes what he’s done, but instead, the kiss just grows hungrier, like neither of them knew how much they needed it, like they’re both desperate to taste each other. 

Stiles moans when his father’s fingers slip into his hair, tugging lightly as his tongue licks into Stiles’s mouth. Stiles pulls him impossibly close, his hands winding around his father’s back, and then he feels it: his daddy is hard too.

“I didn’t—” He pulls back, panting as he rests his forehead against Stiles’s. “I didn’t expect to…”

“To like it?” Stiles finishes for him, taking the chance to run his fingers over his dad’s chest and shoulders, not sure if he’ll ever get the opportunity again, eager to milk it for all it’s worth.

“I like it so much more than I should. I’m—I’m sorry, Stiles,” he chokes out, the words obscured by sobs.

“Me too. It’s okay, Daddy, I do too. Please, don’t—don’t be upset. Don’t pull away from me,  _ please,”  _ Stiles pleads, covering his father’s cheeks and neck with kisses. It’s partly to entice him to stay and partly because Stiles wants to drink his fill before it’s ripped away again.

His father stretches his neck back, giving Stiles better access, and Stiles devours him, licking and kissing and sucking, hyper-aware of the heat of his father’s palms on his back, every press of his fingers. 

“Get on your stomach for me,” he gasps, and Stiles does as he’s told. At first, he thinks it’s because his father doesn’t want to see him, doesn’t want to be reminded of the sickness he’s indulging in, but then Stiles’s shirt is being lifted up and soft, worshipful kisses are being pressed into his back. Gently, his father picks up one of Stiles’s hands and nudges it toward Stiles’s own groin, a wordless permission.  _ Do what you have to. It’s okay.  _ Stiles slips his hand beneath the waistband of his pajamas, groaning with relief when his fingers wrap around his hard cock. “Is this enough?” he asks as he covers Stiles’s body with his own, rutting against Stiles and kissing the back of his neck.

_ Yes yes yes,  _ Stiles thinks, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he can form words anymore because god, of course this is enough. It’s a more divine gift than he ever could have hoped to receive, his whole body hot and tingling. He’s moaning and thrusting back against his father’s clothed cock, furiously fucking his fist and feeling like he’s going to crumble into a thousand pieces every time his father’s moist lips touch the back of his neck. Stiles curls his free hand in the bedsheets, his face pressed down into the mattress, and even though he wants his father to love this, to never regret a single depraved second, he’s spurred on by the shame of it too. It’s hot to be face down, like the reality of this is too ugly and taboo to confront, like he’s being made to take it and isn’t sure if he should. 

“Daddy,” Stiles sighs on a high-pitched moan as he spills all over his hand, his come soaking his pajamas and the sheets. His dad rolls off him and onto his back. Stiles turns onto his side, his hand immediately reaching for the front of his dad’s pants, but he catches Stiles’s wrist in his hand, shaking his head. Disappointment thumps through Stiles’s heart, but he understands. He doesn’t want to ask for too much, and although he’s dying to touch his daddy, to hear him moan and sigh and know that he’s the cause of his pleasure, he’s overjoyed that he got as much as he just did.

“Go take a shower, kiddo. I’ll change the sheets, okay?” Despite the familiar, jovial address, there’s a heaviness to his father’s voice. Stiles wants to lean over and kiss him, snuggle up and worry about the soiled sheets later, but he’s afraid to disobey. Stiles is used to being willful, to being the rambunctious cause of his dad’s shaking head and rolling eyes, but he doesn’t want to be willful in this moment. There’s an eggshell quality to the air surrounding them right now, and Stiles doesn’t want to shatter it to bits. 

When Stiles steps into the warm spray of the shower, he wonders whether or not his father  _ wanted _ to be touched. Did he stop Stiles only because he couldn’t bear to think of the inevitable repercussions? Was he just not ready yet? Or did he not want it at all? 

Stiles knows his father is a lonely man. Has been lonely for far too long. He fills his hours with work, but there’s a lingering ache within him. Stiles is pretty sure his father hasn’t been touched like that in a very long time, and he wants so badly to be the one who finally closes that open wound. Stiles almost gets hard again just thinking about it. He imagines his father in the next room, wonders if he’s bent over and stroking himself, thinking about Stiles and his body.

Reaching for the shower knob, Stiles turns it off and pulls the curtain back, grabbing a towel and beginning to dry off. Now that the water isn’t running, he hears a faint sound coming from the other room. Stiles ties the towel around his waist and opens the door.

“Dad?” Stiles asks hesitantly, stepping into the hallway. The sound is louder now, and he knows what it is. It’s an unmistakable noise, the kind anyone would recognize, and although Stiles wants to move close enough to confirm it, he also wants to wait until it’s over. He wants to give himself the space to deny it.

Stiles’s pulse starts to kick into the erratic, relentless rhythm of anxiety, and he pads down the hall until he reaches his room, his hand curling around the doorframe as he looks down at his father. His dad is crouched on the floor, bent over a trash can, clutching the rim of it as he vomits.

“I’m sorry, son, I just—I don’t know why I let it happen, it wasn’t right, it wasn’t right,” he says, shaking his head vigorously, his hands covering his eyes. He just keeps repeating that refrain— _ it wasn’t right, it wasn’t right— _ and Stiles wants to comfort him, but when Stiles rests a hand on his shoulder, his father twists away, looking down at the spot like he’s been burned. 

“You think I’m disgusting,” Stiles whispers, and he can’t even cry anymore. His tears are dried up. His throat is clenching around stale air, and his voice is flat and lifeless. Numb. That’s what he is. Numb.

Stiles grabs the first shirt and pants he finds on the cluttered floor, getting dressed in a hurry. He vaguely hears his dad telling him to wait, that they need to talk, but it’s like the sound after a gunshot blast too close to an unprotected ear, muffled and confusing. 

Stiles doesn’t want to stick around until it makes sense. He wants to get the fuck away from here. He’s been cooped up too long, stewing in his own moral failings until it’s all he can smell. He hasn’t wanted to get out for so many days, he’s lost count, but suddenly, the need for escape is too urgent to ignore.

Stiles runs downstairs and out the door. The night air is crisp and cool in his lungs. On any other day, it would probably feel nice. A welcome relief from the dusty indoors. He gets into his Jeep, turns the keys in the ignition, and drives before he has time to think it through.

  
  


***

  
  


“I want you to fuck me, and I want to call you Daddy when you do it. I want you to tell me how good I feel and call me sweetheart. Can you do that?”

“Stiles… to what do I owe this tantalizing—”

“I know you like me,” Stiles interjects, meeting Peter’s eyes and holding his gaze. “You always look at me like you’re imagining all the different places you can bend me over. Like you want to make me beg for it. You don’t care about the underage thing because your morals are dubious at best, and anyway, the underage thing kind of doubles as blackmail. I can count on you not to tell anyone because, while you have no fucking sense of shame, you also don’t want to be bothered by other people projecting their sense of shame onto you. So… can you do this for me or not?” 

Stiles crosses his arms and waits. He’s about eighty percent sure Peter will take the bait, but he’s also wondering if the business-like way he’s approaching this is off-putting. Peter being the meddling, curious cat that he is, Stiles is pretty sure he’ll happily take what he wants even if it’s not being offered in the most ideal way, but as the silence stretches on, the two of them continuing their staring contest, that remaining twenty percent starts to make Stiles twitchy.

“Oh, I can certainly oblige you, dear Stiles,” Peter utters in a sultry purr, wearing his best come-hither smile as he strides closer, “but I’m no fool. Something tells me the motivation behind this request is a bit… impulsive.” Peter straightens the collar of Stiles’s plaid shirt, letting his fingers brush against his neck. He inclines his head, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply, a nearly reverent bliss written in his closed-mouth smile. “You smell distressed. What made you rush over here, Stiles? How can I be sure I’m not entering a complicated contract that will come back to haunt me in ways that have yet to make themselves known?”

“You can’t,” Stiles says with a matter-of-fact shrug. “But I can’t either so I’d say we’re even.”

Peter studies him for a moment, and then he grins in that menacing way of his, the kind that signifies Peter is about to get what he wants at a price, but he won’t be the one paying.

“The bedroom’s down the hall on your right,” Peter says, leaning in close enough to whisper in Stiles’s ear. Even though Peter isn’t exactly what he wants, Stiles shivers at the husky words. “I expect you to be naked and ready for me when I come in.”

  
  


***

  
  


“Are you going to tell me?” Peter asks as they lie in bed afterwards. He’s tracing a finger along Stiles’s collarbone, staring down at him with knowing eyes. There’s a slight upturn of his lips that lets Stiles know Peter is thoroughly enjoying this. There’s nothing Peter Hale loves more than a juicy, twisted secret. Stiles wonders if that’s part of the reason he came here. Maybe he subconsciously wants to get caught. Peter is and has always been the one who sees and knows all, and secrets have a way of eating you from the inside out. They demand to be told.

“He threw up afterward. He thinks I’m disgusting,” Stiles says, not bothering to explain; he knows Peter smelled it as soon as Stiles walked through that door. Stiles doesn’t meet Peter’s eyes, choosing to fixate on the contours of muscle along his torso instead. Even if he’s not exactly what Stiles wants, Stiles has to admit he’s a work of art.

“I highly doubt that, darling. I imagine it’s quite the opposite,” Peter asserts, licking along the shell of Stiles’s ear. “You’re asking a lot of him. Perhaps he just needs time to reckon with himself. To convince himself it’s okay to want something ugly and wrong.”

“I’m not ugly and wrong,” Stiles says very quietly, and Peter pulls back a little. Stiles can feel those obnoxiously insightful eyes on him.

“Stiles, that’s not what I—”

“I have to go.” Stiles shoots out of bed, gathering his clothes as the utter emptiness of regret fills him. 

  
  


***

  
  


When Stiles turns the keys in the front door, for a second, he feels like a normal teenager sneaking in after curfew. What would that be like? Having your teen years benchmarked by all the typical rites of passage: coming home drunk at two in the morning, getting caught having sex with your girlfriend, sharing your first joint at a party. Instead, Stiles’s milestones are characterized by blood and death. Every semester is marked by new categories of carnage, and Stiles doesn’t know if he can survive another. He’s not sure how he’s survived this many. 

_ “The traumatized are unpredictable because we know we can survive.” _

Stiles can’t remember where he heard it, but it feels apt. Even if he’s hanging on by a thread, he’s still technically here.

“Where the hell have you been?!” The moment he steps through the door, his dad is on him. “Stiles, after  _ everything _ that’s happened, you just can’t disappear like that!” 

“I needed to get out for a while,” Stiles mutters.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” his dad responds, the volume of his voice lowering a bit. It’s obvious that he’s been going crazy wondering where Stiles was and if he was okay. Face to face with his furrowed brow, Stiles feels a bit bad about that.

“Yeah well, maybe I didn’t have much to say to the person who made me come and then threw up because he couldn’t live with himself. Maybe I didn’t feel too fucking great about that,” Stiles snaps, turning on his heel and heading toward the stairs.

“Stiles.” There’s a hand on his shoulder, and although Stiles doesn’t turn around, he wants to. He wants to fold himself against his father’s chest and feel those strong arms around him. He wants to stay like that forever, safe from the rest of the world. The hand falls away. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry for so many things. I shouldn’t have—I won’t do it again.”

“Touch me or act like it’s the worst thing you ever did?” Stiles asks, his voice cracking.

“Stiles…” His father’s voice is so loaded with regret. It makes Stiles’s knees quiver. He thinks they might give way beneath him. “I know you think the way I reacted is what’s wrong here, but… it’s the fact that I let it happen at all. It’s my responsibility to stop—”

“I wanted it.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s never okay. I should have told you—”

“Told me what?” Stiles whirls around, hand on the banister as he finally looks at his dad. “‘No?’ Because that’s worked so well every other time you’ve tried it?”

“This is different, and you know it.”

“I know it’s different to  _ other _ people, but it’s not to me.” 

“Well, maybe this is one time you  _ need _ to be a little more concerned about what other people think. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.” His father runs a hand down his face, and he looks so tired. A twinge of guilt twists inside Stiles’s stomach.

“Why did you do it? If you thought it was wrong, then why?”

“Because I’d do anything for you, Stiles. You’ve been so unhappy… and you looked up at me and asked, and I just didn’t have the strength to tell you no. You’re right; no hasn’t ever worked before. You are who you are. I love that about you, but this? This is different.” Stiles notices his father has been very careful to avoid saying the one thing Stiles wants to hear:  _ I did it because I wanted to. _ “Where were you tonight?”

The twinge of guilt turns into a spasm. When he left the house, there was a perverse pleasure in knowing that his father would be furious if he found out where Stiles had gone and with what purpose he had gone there. Maybe he hoped for a little explosive jealousy. Now, there is only a sheepish hanging of his head, a tugging on the cuffs of his shirt as he debates whether or not to lie.

“With Peter Hale.” Stiles lifts his head, his eyes bouncing away from his father’s gaze and back again. He’s pretty sure those words are enough. His father can fill in the rest. He’s good at that. Making connections, getting invisible dots to stand out in stark relief between two points, is what he does for a living.

“He’s a dangerous man,” his dad warns.

“That’s kind of the point,” Stiles replies. Choosing Peter wasn’t just about making his father angry. Dangerous men are more willing to do dangerous things. “I wouldn’t have had to go to him if you…” 

“Oh, so it’s my fault that you had sex with someone like Peter? Because I wouldn’t—” 

There is a knife that pierces Stiles’s heart every single time his father can’t bring himself to just  _ say _ it.

“I wanted to see if I could get by like that… if it could be enough,” Stiles whispers. The rest of it—the hurt, the despair—is true, but so is this.

“Did it… was it…” His father takes a step closer, his hand resting on the banister. His fingers are a couple of inches away, but he doesn’t touch Stiles.

“No… not even close.” Stiles lets his fingers slide down until the edge of his forefinger touches his father’s hand. Even from that miniscule contact, the fireworks are instant and intense, a level he didn’t feel with Peter, not even when his thumbs were digging into Stiles’s hips as he fucked him, Peter’s breath hot as he told Stiles what a perfect fuck he was, what a good, good boy. 

“I don’t know what happens now, Stiles.”

“Let’s go to sleep. Things always look a little different after you sleep on them, right? Isn’t that what you always tell me?” Stiles says with a smile, trying his best to dispel the heaviness in the air.

“Okay,” his dad says, offering a cautious smile in return. He looks relieved. Maybe he’s just too tired to fight it right now. Stiles can relate.

“Will you stay with me? I mean, not—just to sleep.” Stiles bites his lip.

_ Please please please _

“Sure… just to sleep,” his dad finally agrees.

  
  


***

  
  


Stiles doesn’t have any dreams that leave him hard and wanting, but he does wake up in his father’s arms with the realization that he just had the most restful sleep in weeks. Maybe months.

“Dad?” he whispers, receiving a small groan in response, strong arms tightening around him. Stiles smiles and presses his cheek to his dad’s chest. He’s decided this is his favorite snuggling position, his leg hiked up over his dad’s middle, his arm slung across his broad chest.

Stiles presses a kiss to his father’s chest, inhaling his musky, cedary scent. He isn’t even trying to start something; it just feels natural to do it. Stiles hums contentedly as he feels a hand lazily combing through his hair, a kiss planted on the top of his head.

“Hey,” Stiles softly says, lifting his head to look at his father.

“Morning, kiddo,” his dad says through half-lidded eyes, a small smile spreading across his lips.

“I like waking up like this.”

“Me too,” his dad confesses, letting out a deep sigh, opening his mouth and closing it again like he can’t decide if it’s safe to talk. Stiles waits patiently. “I think I knew. You’d started to… I could see it when you’d look at me sometimes. The way you’d hug me like it was never enough.”

“Did you think about it too?” Stiles is still terrified of rejection, but it’s a little easier to ask now. Even through the fog of doubt, deep down he knows the answer is yes. His father wouldn’t have done what he did yesterday if he didn’t really want to. 

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’d chase it away before it ever became a real thought. Like when you see something out of the corner of your eye, but you blink before it can show up. Turn your head and convince yourself it was never really there, just a trick of the light.”

“But did you  _ want _ to think about it?” Stiles pushes, and his dad doesn’t speak for a minute, just caresses Stiles’s cheek and chews on his bottom lip.

“Yes,” he finally says, his whole posture relaxing. A burden has been lifted. He looks into Stiles’s eyes and keeps stroking his face.

They stay like that for a long time, just looking, looking, looking at one another, an undeniable heat passing between them. Things have been said that can’t be unsaid. A line has been crossed in a way it wasn’t the last time they were in bed. Ambivalence has turned to certainty. 

Stiles doesn’t second-guess himself; he acts on pure instinct and gives his daddy a soft kiss. Encouraged by the throaty noise his dad makes, Stiles keeps kissing him, offering up a moan of his own when his dad’s lips part to let him in. 

Everything that happened yesterday is erased, placed by this comforting feeling Stiles wants to clutch tightly and never let go, a bubble in which they can just be like this without interruption: lovers slowly waking up together, exploring each other with all the time in the world.

His dad has one hand braced in the small of Stiles’s back, the other gripping his hair, and Stiles shifts a bit until he’s fully on top of him, his father’s legs bracketing his own. 

“I hate that you let him touch you,” he rasps in Stiles’s ear, and it makes Stiles so fucking hard.

“I know. I hate it too. I’m sorry.” Stiles buries his face in his father’s neck and grinds against him. They’re both in pajamas, the thin barrier making it easier for Stiles to feel his dad’s erection against his own. It’s amazing; Stiles knows he could come just thrusting against him, smelling him, tasting him, and feeling his body heat. 

“Shhh, don’t be. You don’t have anything to be sorry for, sweetheart.” His dad’s hands slip under Stiles’s t-shirt, running up and down his back, and Stiles shivers under the contact, panting in his dad’s ear, leaving kisses up and down his neck. “You’re so soft.”

“You won’t… I don’t think I can handle it if you throw up again, I—”

“I won’t. I promise,” he murmurs into Stiles’s hair. As if to prove his words, his hands travel down further, palming Stiles’s ass.

“I—thought you thought I was disgusting.”

“No no, I could never think that. You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You’re my  _ baby,” _ he says, kissing Stiles’s forehead, his cheeks, his lips. Stiles is positively melting from those words. “It’s just hard, sweetheart. You have to understand that there’s a huge part of me screaming to stop this.”

“I know… Are you going to listen to it?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I want you inside me,” Stiles admits, blushing fiercely. 

“I just want you to be happy. I just want to  _ make _ you happy. Is that…”

_ Is that what you want, is that what will make you happy?  _ Stiles can fill in the blanks, and he smiles, comforted by the fact that his normally composed father is as nervous about this as Stiles is.

“Yes.”

“Lie on your back for me?”

Stiles obeys, but his dad doesn’t join him quite yet. He sits up in bed and just looks down at Stiles in a kind of awestruck confusion, like he  _ wants _ but is still fencing with the part of himself that wants to deny it. He slips a hand under Stiles’s t-shirt, and Stiles squirms in delight as his dad’s fingers stroke across his stomach, swiping up to his chest, teasing a pebbly nipple between thumb and forefinger. Stiles moans, reaching out to clasp his dad’s forearm.

“Good?” 

“So good, Daddy,” Stiles says, and his father’s eyes flicker through a cycle of emotions Stiles can’t quite parse. Now that Stiles is older, he rarely calls him Daddy, but the word is always in his head when he thinks about his father this way. Stiles absently wonders if that’s why his dad has started calling him sweetheart again too. At first, he thought it was just the extra tenderness his father wanted to shower him with in the aftermath of the Nogitsune, but now that he’s told Stiles he wants this too, Stiles is seeing everything in a new light. “Do you want me to stop calling you that when… when we’re like this?”

“I don’t know… Maybe… I like it, but I don’t like that I like it,” his dad responds with a soft laugh. 

“Big theme for us.” Stile laughs too, and it seems to make his father less tense, his smile widening, his hand exploring Stiles’s skin again, dipping into his pajama bottoms, stroking the spot right above his cock. Stiles’s back bows off the bed, his hips tilting, trying to tease his daddy’s hand further down. “Can I take my clothes off?” Stiles is afraid of pushing too far too fast, snapping the brittle atmosphere like spun sugar in a closed fist. It still feels necessary to take a pause after every step.

His dad nods, his eyes fixed on Stiles as Stiles sits up to pull his shirt over his head. Stiles averts his eyes as he shucks off his pants, lying back and feeling more exposed than he ever has. There’s an urge to cover up, to lay his hands over his cock or pull the blanket on top of him, but then his father’s fingertips are skimming the tender insides of his thighs and he wouldn’t dare turn away from this moment.

“Do you—I mean, are you—do you like the way I look?” Stiles fumbles, craving approval.

“Oh, sweetheart… you have no idea. You’re so lovely, Stiles,” his father says, his words thick with emotion. He undresses, and a giddiness swells within Stiles as he drinks it all in: the muscle layered underneath an inviting softness, his thick, beautiful, hard cock, the grey-tinged tufts of hair on his chest, the farmer’s tan on his arms, his long, sturdy legs. Stiles is naked in bed, and his dad’s body is on display for him. He can look. He’s  _ allowed _ to look.

“Can I touch you?” Stiles asks, and his father nods, lying down on his side. Stiles touches everything within reach. He strokes down his father’s side, squeezing the soft cushion around his hip, the muscled top of his thigh. He runs his hand up and down his stomach and plays with his nipples, watching closely to see what his daddy likes best, what makes his breath hitch and his eyes close. 

His dad returns the favor, leisurely mapping Stiles’s body with his fingers, giving equal attention to every part of him. Well… every part except one. They’re both carefully avoiding the most intimate of places, and Stiles is the one to finally burst through the boundary. He wants to wait for his father’s cue, but he can’t resist. He’s waited for so long already, and now it’s finally okay. Stiles traces two fingers down the shaft of his father’s cock, and the gasp it earns him is addictive. It makes Stiles bold enough to wrap his fingers around it and start to pump up and down, swiping his thumb over the head on the upstroke, panting almost as much as he would be if the roles were reversed. His father is panting too, and he leans closer, pressing his body against Stiles’s, his moans interspersed with ardent kisses.

Stiles starts laughing, and his father raises a playful eyebrow. 

“You know, it’s been a while, Stiles. Getting laughed at when you take your clothes off doesn’t do much for an old man’s confidence.”

“Sorry, it’s not that at all. You’re _perfect,”_ Stiles assures him. “It’s just… I want to say things to you, but I still feel like I shouldn’t. Like I’ll get in trouble if I do because…”

_ Because you’re my fucking dad.  _

“I know,” his dad responds with a sage nod, giving Stiles a long, deep kiss. “But you can say whatever you want, okay?”

“You have an amazing cock, and I love touching you,” Stiles whispers, hiding his face in the crook of his father’s neck, still jerking him off, enjoying the heft of his dad’s cock in his hand, trying to memorize everything about this moment. “Can’t wait to feel you inside me.”

As he nibbles on his father’s neck, he sees him twisting a bit, his hand reaching behind to open Stiles’s nightstand drawer.

“Been keeping tabs on me?”

“Stiles, everyone keeps it in the nightstand. You’re not as mysterious as you like to think.”

“I don’t think I’m mysterious!”

“No, but you do think you’re damn good at hiding things despite being the worst liar in the world.”

“Yeah, well, I have the best detective in the world for a dad so it’s not like I ever stood a chance.” Stiles laughs, and even though he’s still nervous about what’s about to happen, it’s comforting to bicker with his dad like this. They’re just… them. Two people who know each other as well as they know themselves. Two people who are in sync and always have been. It’s nice, and it makes everything about this seem so much more innocent than it really is. Stiles loves him so much. Why shouldn’t he get to love him like this too? They fit together. They make sense.

“Are you sure?” His dad asks, his eyes grave as he pets Stiles’s hair, the tube of lube in his other hand.

“So sure. Beyond sure. A trillion light-years past sure.”

His dad kisses him again as he eases Stiles onto his back, moving his hand down Stiles’s body until it finally connects with his cock. 

“Daddy,” Stiles moans into his mouth, unable to mentally process the fact that his father is stroking his dick and massaging his balls, touching him where he’s craved for so damn long. Still, he’s grateful that it’s over quickly because he feels like he could come in seconds, and the last thing he wants is for this to be over before it’s even begun. Stiles hears the cap pop open on the lube, and the next thing he knows, slick fingers are gently rubbing circles across his hole. Stiles spreads his legs and brings his knees back to accommodate him, stretching his neck back as his dad kisses and bites at it. Two fingers finally slide inside, and it goes easily. Stiles tries not to think about why that is. He hates that Peter got here first, that he stretched Stiles open, making space for himself. 

He forgets about it all when his father pulls back to look at him, staring into Stiles’s eyes like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. They keep looking at each other while his father thrusts his fingers in and out, and it should be awkward but it isn't. It just makes it that much hotter, and Stiles is so overjoyed that his father wants to really see him while they do this, that he isn’t turning away from what’s happening.

“You are so beautiful, Stiles. You know that I love you, don’t you?” Of course the answer is yes, how couldn’t it be? But even if Stiles were unsure, the look in his father’s eyes would silence all doubt. His eyes are soft and brimming with desire, with love. It makes Stiles tingly all over. He’s warm and loose and happy. Everywhere his dad touches is like a perfectly stoked fire on a crisp fall day.

“I love you too, Daddy. I—” Stiles is cut off by his own moan because his dad’s fingers have crooked inside him, stroking across his prostate and making his eyes roll back in his head. 

His dad sits up, his fingers slipping out, and Stiles misses the heat of his body. But then he’s coating his cock in lube, and Stiles feels like he’s going to spontaneously combust. He wants to remember that image for a long time, preserve it with perfect detail in his head: his father readying his cock for Stiles, spreading Stiles’s legs, planting kisses on the insides of his thighs before lining up and slowly pushing in, meeting Stiles’s gaze.

They both groan as he slides in. Stiles loves the feeling of initial entry, that shift from empty to full, but this feels better than it ever has because he’s full of  _ him.  _ His daddy leans forward, his arms slipping under Stiles’s shoulders, pulling him close, protecting him, holding him the way he always has. They’re both open-mouthed and panting, and Stiles’s hands are cascading down his father’s back, reaching down until his hands are on his ass, urging him closer.

“He wasn’t this good, was he?” his father asks, pulling out slow and thrusting back in hard. Stiles lets out a high-pitched needy sound. 

“N-no,” Stiles stutters out, pushing back to meet his father’s thrusts.

“He can’t make you feel like this.”

“No no, no one can, Daddy. Just you just you just you,” Stiles chants, clamping his legs around his father’s waist, scraping his teeth along his shoulder.

“You feel like heaven, Stiles,” his dad moans in his ear, and if Stiles dies right now, he knows he’ll go out happy. Completely, immaculately happy. His dad’s hand snakes down to grip Stiles’s cock, and it’s so much at once that Stiles feels high, floating so far up in the atmosphere that he can’t see the ground. 

“Ah—please keep fucking me, Daddy. You feel so good inside me,” Stiles begs, his orgasm building into the most delicious torture. Stiles has never been suspended in that state for this long, just on the edge of the peak, every muscle tensing as he braces himself for it, his hands clawing at his father’s back as he begs to come. He’s not even sure what he’s saying anymore, only that he’s overwhelmed in the best way, full of his father and wishing he could stay like this forever, locked together until they form one seamless body. “Make me come, Daddy,  _ please.” _

“You’re mine, sweetheart,” his father whispers, and that’s what sends Stiles over the edge. He comes for a long time, hot spurts shooting between their joined bodies, wave after wave coming over him as he cries out. As he comes down, he realizes he’s frantically whispering  _ DaddyDaddyDaddy  _ like the most devout prayer, and his father is still fucking into him, telling him that he’s everything, that he wants him always, that he needs him, that he’d do anything for him. 

It’s perfect. It’s everything Stiles ever wanted. 

When his father comes, Stiles can feel his cock jerking inside him, and if he could get hard again that soon, he would. His daddy doesn’t hold back when he comes; he moans Stiles’s name and squeezes him tight, kissing him over and over again. 

There’s a flash of worry when it’s over. 

Stiles still has reservations about the aftermath. He doesn’t want his father to roll away and be horrified again, but it’s different this time. They cling to each other as sweat cools on their bodies, his dad’s cock softening inside him as Stiles rubs his shoulders and back. When he finally pulls out, he rolls onto his back, but he doesn’t leave. He nudges Stiles toward him until Stiles tucks into his side, slotting into that favorite position again. Head to chest, knee over his father’s stomach.

He feels the rumble of his father’s laugh.

“Look who’s laughing now,” Stiles says, his voice slurred with fatigue and contentment.

“We really can’t do this,” his father says, but there isn’t any severity to the edges of the words. It’s a lamentation of something that can’t be avoided. A resignation to his fate.

“Think we already did.”

“You know what I mean, smart ass.” His dad tickles Stiles’s ribs, and Stiles swats his hand away. “We can’t make a habit of this.”

“Don’t start feeling guilty again. It’s not like you groomed me, Dad. I’m seventeen.”

“I don’t think those are the details people would focus on if they found out.”

“They won’t find out.”

“Someday you won’t feel fine about this, Stiles. And when that day comes, I think it’ll be better for both of us if we have less to remember. Or less to forget.”

“So what,” Stiles says, lifting his head, “you think we can just get it out of our system and act like nothing happened? Like we don’t need each other? Like I don’t know you want me the same way I want you?”

His father sighs and shakes his head.

“I need you, Stiles. You’re all I have. I can’t lose you, baby. I  _ can’t. _ I almost lost you once, and if this goes wrong, if… if you—”

“Dad, remember how you told me you could never stop loving me? That you could never be disgusted by me?” Stiles sits up and holds his daddy’s face between his hands. “We’re gonna be fine, okay? And if we’re not fine, if everything turns to shit, then we’ll pretend until we’re okay again. We’ll pretend until we believe it, until everything raw heals over. Because you mean the fucking world to me, and I know I mean the same to you. That’s not going to change. No matter what. Right?”

“Right. No matter what.” His dad nods vigorously, his eyes misty, his hand curling around Stiles’s wrist. He draws him into a hug, one hand slipping into Stiles’s hair. “You and me, kiddo. You and me. We’ll figure it out.”

Stiles can feel the sword of Damocles hovering above their heads, and despite what he just said, he knows his father feels it too. 

But that’s what you have to do, isn’t it? Pretend, pretend, pretend. There’s no other way to make it through.

Stiles doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring, but right now he’s warm. He’s warm, his racing mind has settled into blissful quiet, and he’s not alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I hope at least one person out there enjoys this depravity haha. Be well. <3


End file.
